The Mujahid of Zero
by Spooky Skull Face
Summary: In the aftermath of Brussels, a young member of a French cell survives a raid. He is lost, alone and afraid. He accepts his final dying moments, but he is rescued by the most unbelievable of saviors . WARNING: Mature content manner.
He chuckled, blood slowly seeping into his jacket. He clutched his wound tightly, walking groggily through some dark obscure alley. At his heels were French gendarme, looking for him like a fox in the forest. He ducked into a side passage, jumping into a dumpster.

The rancid odor of rotting fruits intermingled with the overwhelming stench of human waste. He didn't care though. He had failed, and not only did he fail he didn't even have the chance to do what was meant for him.

As he felt his life oozing into his hand he closed his eyes, a smile on his face. A smile of content and disappointment

He remembered.

He remembered his childhood. The illegitimate child to a rich French businessmen and an Algerian whore. He remembered a broken home in the middle of some hellish banlieue. He remembered being bullied by the other kids. Bullied for being the son of a Christian. He hated it, he hated all of it. He hated when they insulted his mother, he hated when they insulted his father. He resented his parents, resented them for giving birth to such a wretched creature.

He was spindly, he looked weak. He was always the shortest, always the weakest growing up.

He remembered high school. He remembered so called proud Muslims despoiling themselves, undertaking in drugs and sex. He remembered and he felt disgust. The hypocrisy, the filth of both the poor and the rich. He hated being so obsessed with it, he hated how he was obsessed with getting a girlfriend. He hated how he tried to kill himself for getting pranked by the hottest girl in school. He hated how weak he was. He hated how his mother whored herself, how she reminded him of the degeneracy around him.

He remembered getting into INSA Strasbourg, he remembered the smile on his mother's face. He remembered how it was almost no different from highschool. He remembered learning how to stop caring about it all. He then remembered meeting someone older than him. Someone who changed his life.

He remembered how they talked, first minor things, then it evolved into full blown conversations on Islam and Allah. At first he felt afraid, he was radical, so much more radical than those in his old home. He was afraid but then he was changed, because he knew why he hated his life. He hated France, no that was not accurate. He respected old France, the France of Charles De Gaulle, the France that defeated the Nazis and whom the Algerians fought against. He respected the old France a France that though an enemy was still strong. He remembered liking Front National, he laughed at how Muslims around him called them racists. The Front National were among the few that had an inkling of the fact that there was to be no peace between the various minorities of France, there was going to be war that would either be religious or racial in nature, a war that would only have one winner. Yet he was sure that the Front National, puppets of Jews and Russians, would never be the ones to change France.

France was dead, the entire west was dead. Both spiritually and morally.

He hated the abomination that was the Fifth Republic and what it did to both Christians and Muslims. He remembered being told about the cancers of the west, of the lies of equality, humanism, atheism, feminism, gay rights and every wretched platitude that the Modern West preaches with its fake smile.

He told him about the glory of Allah, of the truth of Islam. He told him and he believed. He was only twenty-two, a geeky loser who was studying chemical engineering. Yet he felt he found his only calling.

He remembered abandoning his old name. He remembered the birth of Jibril ibn Ibrahim, the name of his grandfather.

He took his savings, all of it, and left for Syria. There he had the best days of his life. He remembered the perilous journey, of avoiding the Turks and of the challenges that he needed to overcome. He remembered the struggles and how difficult they were, but he remembered Allah and remembered to stay on his path.

He fought for an Islamic State, a State of Truth. He remembered working in Al-Raqqah. He remembered the bombs, learning under an old master from Afghanistan. He remembered engineering the tools of justice that would assist in the overthrow of the hated west and its empty hallow promises.

He remembered fighting, he didn't remember who. Kurds or Assad's dogs it didn't matter. All that mattered was that he fought for Allah.

Then he remembered Paris, he remembered cheering as his brothers dealt a blow against the hated West. He remembered being sent into Europe among the refugees. He remembered his duty.

He remembered Brussels, how he cursed when it happened too soon. How it compromised their mission in France. He remembered a raid. He was out while it happened, two of his brothers died and he fled.

He fled because he forgot, for one single moment. He fled because he felt afraid. Then it happened, a French police officer, they got into a scuffle. She managed to shoot him, but he managed to kill her.

He was bleeding, he was about to die without fulfilling his duty.

He remembered now the dumpster and he chuckled.

He was now dying for nothing.

He closed his eyes and thought to himself.

"O Allah will you take me into Jannah? Even if I failed?" He whispered and received no answer.

"Are you even there?" He asked absentmindedly.

He chuckled, not out of humor but of despair.

He had failed.

He then heard a voice. A voice that sounded like French and something else.

"My familiar who exists somewhere in the universe!" He blinked, and opened silently the cover of the dumpster. He saw an unnatural light, he felt afraid again.

"Oh Divine, beautiful and powerful familiar spirit!" Was this the work of Iblis? Of some Djiin? He didn't know, he weakly got out, landing with a painful thud. He dragged himself upright, hesitantly touching the portal.

""I wish and plead from the bottom of my heart!" His hand shot into it like quicksand, slowly he was getting dragged into the portal. He panicked, struggling violently. His heart beating madly.

"Answer my guidance." He screamed as he was enveloped in a blinding light.

Jibril ibn Ibrahim, 24 year French national and Syrian foreign fighter was still at large. His two accomplices had died in a raid and he himself a talented bombmaker was missing. For the next two months France would be on its highest alert.


End file.
